


too sick for my mind

by kelex



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Depression, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 12:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: baroquebachmountain asked:  where’s the fanfic where eliot catches quentin eating some f*ckass depression meal and is so horrified that he cooks him a real dinner and there’s a loving description of el’s hands.  This is the answer to that question.





	too sick for my mind

 

“What the fuck is this?” Eliot reached around Quentin and took the plate out of his hands. 

“My lunch.” Quentin didn’t really struggle to take it back, either. He wasn’t really that hungry in the first place, and it had taken all his energy to make that in the second place, which was why he’d been staring at the plate instead of eating. 

Eliot took a good look at the plate. A handful of saltine crackers, one with the salt licked off, two slices of questionably fresh bologna, and two slices of processed cheese still in the wrappers. “This isn’t a meal, Q, it barely even qualifies as edible.“  He sent it sailing across the room and the trashcan rose to meet it. 

"Hey,” he protested listlessly, cheek resting on his knee. “That took me twenty minutes to make." 

Eliot turned at that, really sizing up the way Quentin was burrowing into the couch. He was wearing the same clothes as the last time Eliot had seen him, and even his hair was lifeless. "Okay, so, here’s what is going to happen. I’m going to put you in my shower, it’s got the enchanted loofah for those hard to reach places, and then  I’m going to get you clean clothes and a decent meal." Because he maybe couldn’t fix Quentin’s brain, but he could damn well take care of him. 

"Sure. Okay.” But Quentin didn’t move until Eliot took him gently by the elbow and lifted. Once he was in motion, his body took over and kept him going.

Eliot gently steered Q through the cottage, casually throwing off spells that slammed doors in curious faces.  “I’m gone a day and a half and everything goes to shit,” he muttered. Because when he’d left, Quentin had been his usual self; depressed, sure, but still Q.  Not this sad, funky-in-the-not-fun-way ball of depressed Quentin.

They got to the bathroom without any real incident, and Eliot leaned against the doorjamb.  “Hey, uh, Q? Need help?”

“Huh?  Oh, no, thanks.”  But he just stood there, motionless, trying to work up the energy to lift his arm.  

Eliot gently closed the bathroom door, shutting himself in the bathroom with Quentin.  “I’m just going to help you get started,” he said softly, because he was starting to realize function was one of the things Quentin was having trouble with; he’d gotten up and walked just fine, after all, once Eliot had started him off.  

He didn’t even bother with verbal commands; Eliot simply lifted Quentin’s arm and pulled the sleeve down.  Quentin finally helped, pulling his arm out of the sleeve and letting it fall. Guiding the shirt over Q’s head was easy, and it practically fell off his other arm, it was so oversized.

As if he were sleepwalking, Quentin brought his hands to his waist, opening his jeans and letting them puddle around his socked feet.  

Thank God for underwear, because Eliot was really trying not to be distracted by lascivious thoughts.  There’d be time for such thoughts much later, and he felt a vague pang of guilt for the direction of his private musings.  “You are very lucky right now, Mister Coldwater. If I were slightly less a gentleman, I would be taking advantage of your situation and offering you a blowjob that’d change your outlook on life forever.”  

“I can hear you, you know.”  

Eliot looked up, surprised.  He’d been busy peeling off Q’s socks and not getting a reaction when he’d talked that he’d forgotten.  He found Quentin staring down at him. “Hope I didn’t scandalize you.”

The muscles in Q’s face twitched a fleeting upturn at the corners of his mouth.  “You didn’t,” is all he offered as Eliot straightened. 

“Get in the shower,” he ordered.  “The loofah scrub starts as soon as the water hits your skin,” Eliot reminded.  “Then come on downstairs, I’ll be making you some real food.”

Quentin nodded in understanding, and hooked his thumbs in his underwear, sliding them off to land beside his jeans.  

After turning on the shower, Eliot fled.

\-----

Half an hour later, Quentin came into the kitchen and perched on a stool that hadn’t been there yesterday.  “Eliot?”

Eliot was thoroughly disgusted with himself, and it was rather a new feeling he didn’t much care for.  He would’ve missed Quentin’s softly-spoken greeting if he hadn’t been listening for it specifically. Peeking around the open refrigerator door, he took Quentin in, head to toe.

He’d been thoroughly scrubbed by the loofah, and his hair was still damp, but obviously clean.  Q was wearing fresh clothes and sneakers, and Eliot caught a whiff of his own aftershave, which meant Quentin had shaved without cutting his wrists.  That was always a good thing. “Much better.” Going to the fridge, Eliot took a bottle of cold water out, twisted the cap off, and sat it down in front of Quentin.  “Drink that, all of it.”

Quentin watched silently as Eliot reached into the refrigerator.  He meant to complain that he wasn’t hungry or thirsty, but instead he became oddly hyperfocused on Eliot’s hands.  Strong and strangely compelling, a twist of his wrist had cracked the bottle’s seal, and his fingers quickly unscrewed the cap.  

As he sipped obediently from the bottle, Quentin stared as Eliot chopped.  One hand curled around the handle, the other hand bracing the blunt side of the blade as it minced what smelled like garlic and onions.  It was a silver blur in Eliot’s sure grip, and Quentin had to wonder if it was all skill or some kind of cooking spell. A stock pot full of chicken broth was bubbling merrily on the back burner of the stove, and a wooden spoon drifted over to stir it on occasion.  

Eliot gestured at the kitchen cabinet, and a small wok shot out and clattered to a stop on the front burner.  Quentin was again fascinated as Eliot’s hands danced in the air, making motions and twisting poppers. Long fingers and a wide palm curled around the wok, settling it completely on the stove top.  Eliot flicked the burner on, and dropped a large wad of creamy butter in to start melting. 

“What are you making?”

That Quentin felt like talking, much less showing interest in what was going on, delighted Eliot entirely.  “My special risotto, nothing too heavy.”

Rice and cheese, broth and onion and garlic.  That actually sounded… well, delicious was a strong word, but definitely better than bologna and crackers.  And he  _ did _ feel slightly better after his shower, thanks to Eliot.  “That sounds good,” he answered automatically.

“Well, I aim to please.”  The butter started to sizzle, and he paused to pour a large dollop of olive oil--extra virgin, thank you very much--on top of the butter.  Using a wire whisk, he whisked the oil and butter together, and once it was all melted and properly mixed, the garlic and onions were tossed in for a quick sautee.  The rice was next, and Eliot expertly flipped the rice out of the wok and caught it again without a spill.

Quentin was still focused on Eliot’s hands.  They were sure and solid and strong, knowing exactly when to touch and when to reach out for touch.  He was struck with the cat-like urge to headbutt Eliot’s hand, to get a pat on the head or feel Eliot’s fingers stroke his hair.  Feel neatly-manicured nails skritching his scalp, or the warmth of Eliot’s palm cupping his cheek. But instead of saying anything, Q merely kept drinking from the bottle.

He watched Eliot pour in a cup of wine, then ladle after ladle of broth, stirring between to let the rice absorb every bit of liquid.  Each stir was accomplished with a circular spin of Eliot’s index finger, and he could almost imagine seeing the blood pump through the veins on the back of Eliot’s hands.  “Do you play piano?”

“Okay, random.  But yes. Not for awhile, though.”  He wriggled his fingers, flexing them on imaginary keys.  “I could probably still make my way through  _ Chopsticks. _ ”  He looked suspiciously at Quentin, exaggerating the expression for a smile.  “Why, are you starting a band?”

Quentin just shook his head and rolled his eyes.  “No, God no. I was just wondering.”

Suspicion gave way to instant amusement.  “If you change your mind, I’m really more of a lead singer type than a keyboardist.”

Quentin did have to smile at that.  Because it was way too easy to imagine Eliot as a Jim Morrison or Kurt Cobain type of artist.  The smile vanished immediately when he remembered how both men ended up. Given some of Eliot’s proclivities… “Yeah, no, not a lead singer.  Do you realize what the death rate is for true genius artists?” 

“Should I be flattered you think I’m a genius or worried that you’re calculating suicide rates?”  Eliot added a mountain of cheese to the wok, stirring by hand instead of magic. 

“Be flattered,” Quentin answered.  “I would be.”

A careful study of the wok’s contents showed the cheese melting almost perfectly, and Eliot turned the stove off.  “All right, five minutes until my extra special recipe is ready. You wanna grab the plates, and I’ll make drinks.”  Non-alcoholic, he decided, which might have been a first for both Eliot  _ and _ the cottage at large.

“Okay,” Quentin agreed, and actually got off the barstool.  Plates were an easy reach off a low shelf, so Q laid out two dishes and added two sets of utensils.  A serving spoon was the last addition before Quentin sat back down, out of the way. “Done.”

“Great, drinks too!”  Eliot carried two tall glasses over to the bar.  “Sparkling water, muddled with raspberry.”

Even though Quentin was still working on finishing the bottle, he accepted the fresh drink, with condensation rolling down the side of the glass.  

Eliot dished out two scoops of risotto, and pushed one plate back over to Quentin.  “Eat, Q. Please. I’ll feed you if--” he trailed off. “Never mind.”

As soon as the plate appeared in front of him, Quentin started eating.  He really hadn’t thought he was hungry until the risotto showed up, and then he realized that he was starving.  He forked up bite after bite, barely giving himself time to chew and swallow.

Ecstatic with both results and reaction, Eliot spooned out another helping onto Quentin’s plate.  He moved quickly, because it was obvious Quentin wasn’t paying attention. “Year before last, Margo and I had a threesome with a very handsome satyr at Encanto Oculto,” Eliot related as he put the wok back on the stove.  “At the banquet that night, that satyr ate almost as much of my risotto as you are.”

Quentin didn’t seem to notice the refill, nor did it slow him down.  “Ish gut,” came out between bites, which Eliot translated as,  _ it’s good! _

“Well, thank you.  I do try.” Eliot considered slipping Quentin a third helping, but thought to himself that it might be a good idea to moderate and not let Q eat himself sick.  “I’m putting the rest up for your lunch tomorrow, and I’m going to enchant the container so nobody else can eat it.”

“Ooo dun haf do do ‘at.”

“Swallow, then talk.”

Quentin did just that, swallowing hard and washing the wad of rice and cheese down with sparkling berry water, which was surprisingly good.  “I said, you don’t have to do that,” he repeated, then forked up the last bite on his plate.

“But I want to,” Eliot pointed out simply as he spooned the leftovers into a dish and snapped the lid on.  Then he smacked the back of Quentin’s hand with the serving spoon. “Enough. You’ll be sick.”

Quentin guiltily pulled his spoon away from Eliot’s plate.  “Why are you doing this, El? Why do you even care what I eat, or if I eat?”

Another barstool appeared from somewhere else inside the cottage, and Eliot parked it across from Quentin.  “Because I was young and flamboyant in fucking Indiana, and that doesn’t give you a healthy relationship with anything, including food.  Or mental stability. I literally weighed in on the opposite end of the line--I ate everything I could get my chubby little fingers on. And it’s taken me awhile to get things balanced again.  Because really, who  _ actually _ enjoys cucumber sandwiches when they don’t have to?”  He reached for the sparkling water, and drank deeply. “And you’re my friend.  Maybe my best friend, you and Margo. I’d do anything for you.” 

Of all the reasons Q’s depressed brain could conjure-- _ I have to, you’re a responsibility, I want something out of you, I have an obligation to you _ \--the simplest reason had never occurred.   _ Because you’re my friend and I care _ knocked him back on his heels.  He wanted to apologize, but couldn’t find the words.  Instead, he slid his hand across the bar.

Eliot squeezed Q’s hand tightly in his, and they were both silent as Eliot finished eating.  Then, as Eliot loaded the dishwasher, Quentin went into the main room and curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace.  He stared moodily into the flames until Eliot came to sit beside him. Then he rolled into Eliot’s space, laying his head in Eliot’s lap.

Eliot was not surprised; while Quentin never exactly seemed touch-starved, he was certainly receptive to it and responded well to it.  So Eliot, a tactile person on a good day, gave it easily. One hand rested on Quentin’s shoulder, thumb stroking idly. The other petted through his hair, the air-dried strands fluffier than usual. “Q?”

“Yeah?”  Quentin was practically basking in the attention, but he tilted his head to look at Eliot.  

“I want you to promise me something.”  Eliot didn’t stop the petting.

“What is it?”  If it were possible, Q snuggled in closer to Eliot’s warmth.

“I know you can’t always control it,” Eliot started.  “But if you feel like you’re heading into a bad stretch like this… promise that you’ll call me.”  He looked down at Quentin’s head in his lap. “Promise you’ll let me be here to help you, even if it’s just staring out the window together.”  

“I promise I’ll try,” Quentin agreed.  “Sometimes, I just… can’t. Anything. But I’ll try.”

“And I’ll try to be a little more observant,” Eliot promised in return.  Leaning down, he kissed Quentin’s forehead. “And I’m sorry about earlier, I just--”

Quentin cut him off.  “It’s okay, El. I know you like me.  And I like you. But I can’t, right now.  Whenever this passes--and that could take awhile.  The last time, I checked myself into Midtown.But when this passes, and I’m back to what passes for normal, can we talk about this again?  Because… because… well, just because. We deserve it, right? A chance to check this out for real?”

Eliot’s smile was slightly sad.  “Yeah, of course we can.” He knew that conversation would never actually materialize.  Something always got in the way. 

“Thank you.”  He felt the fireplace--and Eliot’s closeness--working their magic.  For the first time in a couple of days, he didn’t feel alone. Eliot’s touch was grounding, a soothing reminder that somebody cared, that he mattered to someone.  After a half hour or so, he was relaxing just enough to sleep. 

Eliot caught the yawns that Quentin tried to hide.  “Hey, how about I take you upstairs?” he offered, because he wasn’t sure that he could carry Quentin up the staircase.  

Quentin stumbled sleepily, but Eliot caught him.  Rubbing his eyes, Q followed Eliot’s lead, climbing the steps carefully.  The door to his bedroom was ajar, and as soon as Eliot pushed it open, Quentin stumbled in and collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed.  

“Goodnight, Q.”  Eliot covered him with a blanket, and kissed his cheek.  Except Quentin turned into the kiss and it landed on his mouth instead.  Startled, Eliot pulled away, only to find Quentin’s hand on his wrist. “Q?”

“Please stay?  I don’t wanna be alone anymore.”  Quentin kept his hand on Eliot’s wrist.  “I won’t kiss you again.” 

A quicksilver smile spread across Eliot’s face, because damned if he could deny Quentin anything.  “Move over.” He kicked off his shoes and rolled in beside Quentin, pulling him close. Their clothed legs tangled together under the blanket, and Quentin buried his face in Eliot’s chest.  Q’s arms went around Eliot, and he heaved a thoroughly contented sigh before finally drifting off to sleep.

Eliot sighed softly, rubbing Quentin’s back.  He fell asleep pondering exactly what Quentin would like for breakfast, and the taste of Quentin’s lips lingered in his dreams.

The End


End file.
